Sentenced
by SarahKnight
Summary: John had an urge to smash into Flitwick Prison, throw Sherlock over his shoulder and rescue him from the criminals he was trapped with, some of whom the consulting detective had put into jail himself with his compulsive crime-solving. Post-s3, Sherlock's in prison being targeted by a murderer, John's married to a pregnant assassin and Moriarty's back. Eventual JOHN/SHERLOCK.
1. Boundary

Hello! This story is complete, but I want to make a few changes to it so I'm redrafting, proofreading and (hopefully) perfecting one chapter a day before posting. Also available on AO3 if you prefer /works/1466356/chapters/3090094 Please comment to let me know if you enjoyed it :)

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"What's that?" John asked.

"What?"

John pointed at Sherlock's black eye. "That," he repeated, with more emphasis.

Sherlock's fingers brushed against the purple swelling as if the memory of getting it momentarily distracted him. But only momentarily. "Must we do this 'how are you, how am I' rubbish, John?" he complained. "We only have half an hour. Focus."

John gritted his teeth. "I'm focused on this, Sherlock." He gestured to the their surroundings in Flitwick Prison's visiting room. On John's side of the room were angry wives, screaming kids and disappointed parents. On Sherlock's there were thugs, weirdos and psychopaths in matching maroon sweatpants, grey t-shirts and handcuffs.

In-between them were a wall and a window.

It was about as personal a visit as visiting the bank.

Not that he wanted things to be _personal_ personal with Sherlock. But there was not-personal, and then there was this.

It was like when you don't notice a building till it's been torn down, or don't hear the noise of the fridge until it clicks and goes off. Ever since there had been a literal wall between them, John felt like they had been wrenched apart. He ached to just reach out and squeeze Sherlock's hand, or punch him lightly on the shoulder, or brush his thumb over the tender skin of his black eye.

He also had an urge to smash through the glass, throw Sherlock over his shoulder and rescue him from the criminals he was trapped with, some of whom he had put into jail himself with his compulsive crime-solving, but he couldn't do that either. For one thing, the glass was bulletproof.

"Prison?" asked Sherlock, facetiously. "Yes, rather hard to forget, isn't it."

"Has Mycroft visited yet?"

"Why would he?"

John tutted. "Can't you just... y'know. Apologise? I mean, you did try to sell him out to a dangerous blackmailer, putting his job, his life, and the whole country at risk."

"Pfft," Sherlock said dismissively.

"And despite that, he still organised for you to be released from prison to go on that secret mission..."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged.

"And then when Moriarty returned, Mycroft sorted out that hearing so you could stay in the country after all. I mean, if you hadn't pissed off his boss with those deductions about her daughter... and step-son, and husband, and chauffeur..."

"The chauffeur was the step-son."

"...I'm sure he would've managed to keep you out of jail and..."

"I don't need him, John," interrupted Sherlock with a huff. "The parole hearing..."

"The parole hearing!" John said, incredulous. "You... Sherlock, it's only been a month... do you realise how little chance there is of a murderer..."

John stopped himself short.

The word 'murderer' hung in the air and John avoided Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock frowned. A murderer. Was that how John saw him? Yes, he supposed it must be. John had killed, but only as a last resort to an immediate threat. Sherlock had killed Magnussen as a last resort to an impending threat. There was a subtle but important difference according to the judge - and, apparently, to John.

They had never talked about it before and Sherlock wasn't keen to start now. "Don't worry John," he said instead. "As always, I have a plan up my sleeve."

Ice broken, John near-shouted in response: "Well bloody-well hurry up with it!" He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly: "I'm… Just… Worried," he said. "Black eyes, sprained wrists, split lip. It's something else every week, Sherlock. What the hell is going on in there?"

He didn't say that whether Sherlock was technically a murderer or not, it made him want to break in there and punch somebody, but that was one of the good things - and one of the bad things - about Sherlock. He almost always knew what you were thinking.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, let's talk about our feelings then, if we must." He put on a mocking voice to imitate John, "How's prison, Sherlock? Shit actually, John – how's being married to a liar who's eight months pregnant with your child? Shit actually, Sherlock –"

"Oy!"

Sherlock screwed up his face, re-evaluating, "Okay, a bit crap, a bit good, generally confusing all round. I've been sleeping with a gun under my side of the mattress –"

That was cutting a bit close to the bone. "Sherlock…" John warned, but Sherlock was on a roll.

"– just in case. Well, I say _sleeping_."

John just rubbed his head in frustration.

Sherlock switched voices: "Oh dear, John, how terrible for you. Don't worry, I understand just how you feel. I can't sleep either – my cellmate's a killer too. Let's talk about it and hug."

John looked up to see Sherlock's cuffed wrists reaching out as if he could embrace him through the screen, his put-on expression simultaneously sympathetic and vulnerable. John looked Sherlock straight in the eye for five seconds, but still couldn't decide whether to laugh or shout or cry.

"Fine," he said eventually. "Let's talk about Moriarty."

"Finally!" Sherlock said with relief, withdrawing his arms.

"Only there's nothing to tell," John said.

"You're just not looking properly!" snapped Sherlock.

"I've done everything you said, Sherlock. There was no evidence linking those disappearances to Moriarty. People disappear."

"He's too good to leave evidence."

Now it was John's turn to snap, "Then what the bloody hell do you expect me to do? Maybe it was a hoax, maybe he's not even back. That's what everyone's saying."

"Oh, _everyone_," said Sherlock with disdain. "What do they know? Who cares what anyone thinks apart from me?"

John snorted. Sherlock didn't acknowledge it, just carried on: "So, you did everything else I said?"

"Uh huh," said John. "Yes. Went along with Lestrade to the crime scenes you asked about. Looked for the types of things you said. Looked on the victim's Facebook accounts. Everything. And still nothing to suggest he's back except that ridiculous video that went… viral, is it? I mean, it wasn't even live footage, Sherlock..."

But John was just playing devil's advocate. He knew they couldn't sit back and risk that Moriarty's return _wasn't_ a hoax. And Sherlock knew that he knew.

"Did 'everything' include – that thing?" Sherlock asked.

"The prescription?" asked John. "Yeah, I faxed it through to the prison doctor like last time. I do know what zamasaproxyl is for, you know. You gonna tell me why..."

"Not _that_ thing," said Sherlock.

Then John realized what he was referring to. "No! And like I said last time, I'm not going to be doing _that thing_."

Sherlock's sad response was almost pathetic.

"Are you… are you trying to pout? Are those supposed to be puppy dog eyes?"

Sherlock snapped out of it and asked: "Is it working?"

"No. No, no, no," said John, with finality. "Absolutely not."


	2. Amiss

Yet John did, of course, find himself in a graveyard in the middle of the night. The fact that Sherlock always almost turned out to be right, and regularly saved lives with his right-ness, made it impossible to resist following his instructions.

John had never forgotten the time he had been tempted to refuse to help Sherlock, mad at him for his insensitivity, for enjoying the case too much, and Sherlock had pointed out the hypocrisy of his inaction. What was worse? Saving somebody whilst enjoying a murder investigation, or refusing to help because of your own stupid ego?

And so, instead of being too proud to follow orders, he took a pride in doing exactly as Sherlock Holmes told him when it came to investigating a case.

It wasn't as fun without his best friend by his side, but, as he chided himself, fun wasn't the point, and at least he had his wife, dubious as he was about allowing her to come on cases with him in her condition. Problem was, she was equally dubious about allowing him to go investigating Moriarty on his own.

Ever since the consulting criminal had announced his return, Mary had become extremely protective, worrying that John would become a target. Any protests he made about her being pregnant were countered with protests about how the baby needed a father too and that they were safer together and doubly armed.

There was no stopping her coming along, gun tucked into a hidden holster under her maternity cardigan, just in case.

He wasn't sure what he thought of the whole thing. It was either very cool or very disturbing. Possibly both.

Mary, on the other hand, knew exactly what she thought of it.

"Kinda sexy," she said, smiling from where she sat perched on a low gravestone. "All manly, sweaty…"

John wiped a muddy hand through his hair. "You find late-night grave digging sexy. Why don't I find that reassuring?"

Mary's smile vanished at the subtle reference to her former life and shady history. "I thought you were going to stop doing that?"

"Yes. Sorry." John said. "It's in the past, we're putting it behind us. Right." He stuck the spade into the ground with a little too much force. "It's just… I don't like this."

Mary stood up carefully, cradling her bump as if to protect it from the jolt. John moved to help her but she waved him off and straightened up.

"This?" she asked, a little hesitantly, indicating the two of them with a wave of a hand.

John pretended not to notice that she wasn't sure if _this_ meant _them_. "Yes, this. Corpses. Not a hobby of mine."

"Not what I read in your blog," she quipped.

John was chewing the inside of his lip again.

It just didn't seem right, bringing his unborn child to dig up the grave of a master criminal. The most strenuous thing Mary should be doing right now was going to pre-natal classes and the baby should be listening to Bach or Mozart or something, not getting an adrenaline rush via her thrill-seeking mother.

Not that Mary looked remotely worried enough to be getting an adrenaline rush.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "You didn't bring us, we just came. Just because I'm about to drop, doesn't mean I don't have your back."

She squeezed his arm, picked up the crowbar and moved towards the now open grave, side-stepping one of the heaps of mud and grass he had piled up around them.

"Wait!" said John.

She stopped short.

"I'll do it," he continued. "You stand back. Just in case."

She tutted. "I could totally own zombie Moriarty."

John's lip curled up in amusement. A moment later, he was giggling. She joined in and their eyes met, bright and alive.

But he looked away, and the moment was lost.

"If Moriarty's body's not in there, he's alive somewhere else, and he could've rigged this up as a trap for Sherlock." He started guiding her over to hide behind a large tree. "You just look after little Annabelle from a safe spot…"

"Annabelle?" she retorted. "After your mother? I don't think so."

He kissed her, with a mock-patronizing, "Later darling, I've got work to do."

She rolled her eyes but stayed put while he went back over and jumped into the grave. He sighed as he landed, wondering for the millionth time since he met Sherlock Holmes, whether or not he was crazy.

"Is he in there?" shouted Mary from behind her tree.

John's automatic response was a chuckle, but then he found himself frowning. He'd always imagined himself settling down with someone... well, normal. Wives were supposed to nag you to be careful, not egg you on and watch your back with a gun.

But maybe she - and Sherlock, bizarrely - were right when they said that he'd seen the dangerous side of her and been attracted to it.

When he'd met Mary, her adventurous side had seemed fantastic. Not as strong as his and Sherlock's, he'd thought, but enough to excite him, to let him feel that he had the perfect balance between the security of domesticity and the freedom to kick arse every now and again.

That was before he'd found out that Mary was on the run from a dark past. Before she'd shot Sherlock. Now he couldn't tell if he was the luckiest man alive, or the stupidest.

"Well?" shouted Mary.

"Just a minute!" John called back.

He crowbarred open the casket. A couple of jacks and the lid pulled off with a groan and the splintering of wood.

He grimaced, but it was a strange smell that had him clambering back to ground level, not, thankfully, an explosion or booby trap.

Mary joined him at the mouth of the grave and put an arm around him like they were site-seeing. They looked down into the coffin at Moriarty's body. It was perfectly groomed and preserved, a little smile on his lips, like he had fallen into a pleasant dream after he shot himself on the roof of St. Bart's and then hadn't aged a day.

John gaped.

Mary snorted. "Trust that man to bloody embalm himself."

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Please review :)


	3. Purgatory (Sherlock)

Note: I've used underline instead of strikethrough in this chapter as won't format strikethrough. Please use your imagination :)

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Sherlock hated mornings. There was always that moment when he thought he was in his bed at Baker Street, followed by the moment that he realised the pillow was too lumpy, the mattress too thin and the cover too scratchy. He would remember that not only was he in jail, he was in a small, locked cell, and that he wouldn't be able to leave it for any reason whatsoever until it opened with the buzzer at 6.30am.

That idea sometimes sent an unpleasant flutter of panic through his chest.

Illogical, really. There was absolutely nothing in jail that he wanted to do or see, so, logically speaking, he might as well be locked in the cell as anywhere.

Still...

He curled up into a ball and pulled the covers over his head like a petulant child, one arm tucked under his pillow.

Mondays were the worst day. Having seen John the afternoon before during his weekly half-hour visiting slot, he would dream of him. They were on a case together, or arguing - which oddly, were his favourites - or chasing a criminal and then resting against a wall, laughing, breathless, at the glorious ridiculousness of their lives.

And then he would wake alone on the top bunk to the sound of his cell-mate Big Joe's guttural snoring, in the confines of a box streaked with chipped white-wash, and gripped by the knowledge that there was a whole week before he could see a friendly face again, and even then only in handcuffs and through a safety screen.

His fingers, under his pillow, found the sheet of writing paper that he had hidden there. He removed them again - it was too sentimental to touch it, like it meant something, like it connected him to John.

Besides, he didn't need to feel it or look at it to remember what he'd written in the dark last night, after bed-time - a bloody bed-time! - when the electric went off and the only light in the cell was the green glow of the fire safety light.

He would prefer to text or type or talk of course, but...

_John,_ he'd written.

_I find this sort of stuff difficult too, but I'll give it a go._

_What sort of stuff? Use your eyes, John, isn't it obvious?_

_People who see each other often have a lot to talk about, they talk about their day-to-day lives, anything and everything they've experienced, done or thought about. People who haven't seen each other for a long time struggle - what you did last week isn't big enough, yet what you have done for the past two years is too big._

_I suppose that's why you never asked what happened while I was away._

_I never asked what you did because..._

_Shall I turn it into a narrative, romanticize it like you do for your blogs? You tell me that draws people in. They want to know I'm human, you said, they're interested._

_There is only one person whose interest I want._

_I was in a shabby third-world hotel that had dropped off the star-rating system, staking out Moriarty's second assassin, when I realised that I had friends. The evidence was clear once I thought to look - there were people who I missed and who, when they knew I was alive, had, despite my many social inadequacies, continued to seek my company._

_I also realised that I hadn't risked my reputation and an anonymous death to defeat Moriarty. I could have done that without jumping from St. Bart's roof, had I disregarded the hit-men trailing you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson._

_I cared, John._

_I cared more about you than I did about myself._

_My initial reaction was disgust._

_I could only imagine what Mycroft would say - one of our few mutual opinions had always been scorn at the ordinary person's weakness for companionship._

_Then I thought some more, as one is apt to when staring through binoculars at an empty building for thirty-six hours straight, and wondered what the hell Mycroft had to do with any of it - as if that insufferable pillock was any indication of how to live one's life. I had friends, I bloody well liked it, I liked them, and Mycroft could take his disdain and shove it up his fat arse._

Sherlock had considered crossing that out, it was embarrassing admitting that he had every considered Mycroft's opinion on anything, but he thought that the insults would make John laugh and so he kept it in.

_On the third night of the stakeout, I had three more realisations. Firstly, my target was more skilled than I expected. He'd realised someone was spying on him and tracked me down. Secondly, even I am not at my best after sixty-four stationery hours without sustenance - he took me by surprise with a gun-barrel to the head. Thirdly, and most importantly, I wasn't just doing this for friendship -_

Sherlock pulled the letter out from under his pillow, ripped it in half, ripped it into quarters, and carried on tearing and tearing until the pieces were so small that the contents were illegible.

He pushed the bits into his pillow case with the rest - the once-flat cushion had doubled in size since he'd started here. At least something practical was coming from his compositions, because it was pointless even thinking about ever sending them to John.

He had thought about telling him of course, all the time when he'd been away, planned hundreds of different scenarios. In all of them, John was waiting for him at Baker St. and was excited, elated, ecstatic when he found out Sherlock was alive.

Naive, stupid.

Instead, John was angry and, worse, he was proposing. To somebody else; a woman.

Later, Sherlock had had a second chance, when John was angry with Mary instead of him. Only, he couldn't stand John's misery, how quiet he was when he visited Sherlock in hospital, every day, without fail. He found himself persuading John to forgive her.

Eugh. Love. It was so irrationally selfless.

And what was it all for? John still didn't seem happy. Yet telling him now would be even more futile, damaging even, because Sherlock couldn't be the one to make him happy. He was in jail and John was straight and in a few weeks, he and Mary would have a baby to revolve their lives around.

The thought made him sick.

John changing nappies and going to children's birthday parties and doing puppet shows with teddy bears and whatever else parents did, too busy to visit Sherlock as he died slowly of the chronic boredom brought on by Flitwick Prison's regulated tedium:

06.30 - the morning alarm went off and the doors unlocked.

06.45 - showers / breakfast.

08.30 - work.

10.30 - 15-minute break.

12.00 - lunch.

13.00 - work.

14.30 - 15-minute break.

17.00 - dinner

18.00 - socialising/recreation or gym/exercise.

20.00 - back to the cell.

21.30 - all the lights go off. Bed time.

06.30 - do it all again.

The jail's daily routine seemed to have been designed specifically to incorporate all of his least favourite things: food, exercise, idle recreation (what exactly was the point of table tennis?), sleep, and wasting his own time doing mind-numbing, low-skill jobs.

Then the morning alarm sounded, the door clicked open and the claustrophobia dissipated. He tossed the covers aside and slid down the bed's ladder saying, "Morning! Lovely day, isn't it?" as if he could see what the weather was like through their windowless, graffiti-etched walls.

Big Joe grunted from the bottom bunk and rolled over to go back to sleep.

"You're right Joe, my mistake," Sherlock said, as if the man had answered. "It's crap again, like every day in this abominable institution."

"Will you shut up!" Joe groaned.

"Probably not," said Sherlock, as he pulled on the maroon jogging pants and baggy grey t-shirt and sweatshirt that was the prisoners' uniform. He clipped his I.D. badge (name, photo, serial number) to his collar with its safe, plastic pincers - he'd learnt quickly to pick his battles and leaving off the badge was more hassle than it was worth.

"See you later," he said as he left the cell.

Joe stuck up a middle finger from under his pillow.

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So, what do you think so far? Please review, it makes all this writing worthwhile :)


	4. Purgatory (John)

I've done two chapters for you today so that you can see what John's up to _and_ see Sherlock in prison...

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John woke with a gasp, Sherlock's name just about on his lips. He'd been dreaming of finding him again, in Magnussen's office, a bullet hole in his chest.

He hated mornings. The relief that came with the end of his nightmares was followed by a reflex-reach for his gun and the realisation that real life wasn't much better than his subconscious. His best friend was in prison for murder, his wife was a murderous assassin, and Moriarty, the murderer of murderers, was probably at large, plotting against them all.

No way that thing in the coffin had been the consulting criminal's corpse - he was a doctor and an amateur pathologist, he knew a dead body when he saw one. As for the details, he had left that to Scotland Yard with an anonymous phone call.

What was certain was that Moriarty was not in his grave, and _that_ was why John kept a gun under his mattress, thank you very much, Sherlock Holmes. Not because of his wife... although he had to admit the thought had crossed his mind.

John couldn't even feel the gun through the bed, so how the hell Sherlock was so sure it was there, John hadn't a clue. John would never cease to be amazed by the man's powers of deduction.

He reached under the bed and touched it to make sure, for reassurance, as if it could wander off in the night and get them all into trouble.

Mary slid an arm around his waist. "Morning," she whispered, her hand wandering up the front of his pyjama shirt, tickling the fine hairs of his stomach.

John kept his eyes shut and shifted a little, mumbling incoherently as if he was still pretty-much asleep.

Mary's hand moved up to his chest, a finger tracing a circle around his nipple.

John made his breathing slow and heavy, slower and heavier, slower and heavier, until it turned into a little snore.

Mary stopped, sighed, pulled her arm away and slid her feet out of the bed, steadied herself with the bedpost and pulled herself up to standing.

"I know that you're awake, you know," she said, as she tottered into the bathroom.

"Wh- what?" said John, rolling over and rubbing his eyes, unconvincingly.

Mary just gave him a disapproving look and closed the door behind her.

He sighed. A glance at the clock told him that he could lie in bed for at least five more minutes before he had to get up and go wallpaper-shopping, and so he would. Might as well make the most of the day off work.

He felt guilty for fobbing Mary off. He would make it up to her later. They'd have fun, decorating the baby's bedroom together, like a normal couple, a normal family. He did love her, of course he loved her. It was just...

He wondered, was it Sherlock's inability to keep his observations to himself that was getting him black eyes, split lips and bruises? Was it just the fact that he was a detective? Was it someone who Sherlock had put away, after revenge? Was it anything to do with Moriarty, was he paying people to harass Sherlock on the inside?

And why did Sherlock have zamasaproxyl on repeat prescription? The drug could be used to treat several conditions - considering his circumstances, depression seemed the most likely in Sherlock's case. Was he depressed? Was asking John, instead of the prison doctor, to do the prescription, his way of asking for help? Of course, prison must be depressing for anyone, let alone someone with Sherlock's low boredom threshold. If only there was something more John could do...

John tutted at himself.

Why the hell was he turning down morning sex to obsess over his best friend's problems? Sherlock had made his bed, so maybe he should get out of John's.

It's just that… he was used to being able to have Sherlock's back. He was used to being able to see him whenever he wanted to, to switch between domesticity with Mary and danger with Sherlock when the mood struck him. He was used to... well, he was just used to Sherlock. As much as anyone could ever be used to Sherlock.

He felt so useless being on the outside.

All he could do was visit Sherlock every week in the hope that it made his sentence a little less unbearable.

It made John's sentence a little less unbearable too.

The toilet flushed and Mary opened the door again while she cleaned her teeth. "What are you thinking about?" she asked between brushes.

"Baby's wallpaper," he said.

"Liar," she teased. "You're worrying about Sherlock."

"That too," he admitted.

She lowered her voice and put on a posh accent: "Worrying is for sentimental idiots who don't have the sense to use their minds productively."

John's mouth quirked upwards. "Terrible impression."

"Then how'd you know it was an impression?"

John chuckled.

Mary climbed back into bed and this time he opened his arms. She cuddled up to him, her head in the crook of his chest, her arm around his waist. He reached down and put a hand on her stretched, flannel-covered belly.

"Dannielle practising her karate this morning?" John asked.

"I think you mean Carrie. And no, she's taken pity on me."

John smiled. Mary put her hand over his. "Daddy's good morals and mummy's ability to kick ass," she joked.

John frowned. But before he could think too much about Mary's lack of self-perceived morality, she proved how evil she was by putting her cold feet on his warm legs.

"Argh!" he exclaimed, scrambling to pull his legs away.

"Wuss," she joked, attacking him with her icy toes.

"Come here, you," he said, laughing, and pulled her into a kiss.

It was these moments that kept them together. Moments when she was just Mary, moments when he could forget that she had done 'wet jobs' for the C.I.A before going 'freelance', that she'd said, 'People like Magnussen should be killed - that's why there are people like me'. People like her.

There was no one like her.

After Afghanistan he'd felt empty. After Sherlock's suicide, he felt full. Full of a churning, sickening, black storm of grief and guilt and anger. Anger at himself and at Sherlock, and then more guilt for being angry at Sherlock, who was dead, dead, dead.

Then there was Mary, and he came back to life.

She was exciting, intelligent, compassionate and funny. A woman who wanted to share his life without consuming it. A woman who took him go-carting on their first date and snuggled on the sofa with a Chinese for their second. A woman he could live with; a woman he could marry.

Still, he couldn't help but ask himself, who was she, really? Was it okay to forget, and were 'moments' good enough?


	5. Consequence

First thing was first. Sherlock went to collect the zamasaproxyl John had prescribed for him from the pharmacy desk. The pharmacist watched him put it in his mouth and swallow, then he had to open wide and show that it was gone.

Once around the corner, he spat out the tablet and tossed it.

Next up was breakfast.

"Piece of shit," spat Gaz, this week's server, from behind the counter.

"Morning Gary," said Sherlock, deadpan.

Jonesy the pasty, podgy and aproned chef, rushed over. "Don't worry Gaz, I'll serve him."

Gaz gave Sherlock another dirty look before moving on to laugh and joke with his next customer. When he was out of earshot, more or less, Jonesy slopped a ladle-full of porridge into a bowl and slid it over towards Sherlock.

"A full... portion?" asked Sherlock.

"More or less," said Jonesy. "Supply issue."

Sherlock frowned.

"Take it or leave it," said Jonesy. He wasn't as soft as he looked.

Sherlock nodded reluctantly, almost imperceptibly, and took the tray.

As he carried his breakfast across the room, another inmate - _Trevor Stone_ noted Sherlock, with a glance at his badge - barged into him and oinked a couple of times.

Stone went over to sit with... Dicky Markham, Thomas Dimes and their gang. Of course.

In for the brutal murder of his cheating girlfriend, Dicky had got away with it for nearly a decade before he had been brought down by Sherlock Holmes powering through cold case files to pass the time, six years ago. Six years was a long time to be stuck in a tedious prison eating bland vegetables and washing other men's bed sheets because a clever detective outsmarted you.

The group all joined in with the pig noises, laughing to themselves, congratulating each other on their self-perceived wit. "Nice black eye, Miss Marple!" shouted Stone, but Dicky shoved him to shut him up at that, and they began arguing amongst themselves. Sherlock just shook his head pityingly, righted his course and continued walking.

He sat down opposite Tutty, yet another meat-head with a smattering of clichéd tattoos, putting his tray down and picking up his spoon.

Sherlock hadn't taken one bite of his porridge before Tutty grinned and reached over to stick his fingers into the bowl, grabbing a handful of the oats in one hand and laughing cruelly. "I'll have some of that."

A couple of others further along the table - Sherlock couldn't see their badges - laughed. "Nice one Tutty," someone said.

"Stick your cock in it, he likes that!" joked another one.

"How do you know? Bender!" joked the first one.

"Fuck off!"

Sherlock was well-used to the rabble by now and ignored it, instead looking at Tutty's porridge-filled hands in disgust, putting down his spoon and turning his attention to his cup of tea instead.

Tutty was fiddling around with something under the table. He leaned over to Sherlock and stuck his fingers in the porridge again.

Sherlock leaned back a little, holding his tea out of the way in one hand. He rolled his eyes and whispered: "Must you be so dramatic, Tutty? I could have just given you my leftovers."

"Where's the fun in that, Shezza?" Tutty laughed and sucked the porridge off his hands. "Gotta show I hate the coppa's guts, or people might suspect you're up to no good like the rest of us."

"Consulting detective," corrected Sherlock, curtly.

"If you're such a detective, what you doing in here?" laughed Tutty. But he was fingering his porridge-coated cocaine baggie under the table - the laughter turned into a frown first; a moment later he was mad.

He knocked Sherlock's tea out of his hand with a swipe. The mug - plastic - bounced, but the lukewarm tea splattered across the floor. Tutty leaned over and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his sweatshirt, hissing, "We agreed a half!"

"Supply issue," Sherlock whispered back, repeating Jonesy's excuse.

He shoved Tutty off and Tutty grabbed him again, even angrier than before.

Then, before it got heated, two of the guards, Chapman and Chapman, Mr. and Mrs., dragged them apart.

"Clear that up, now!" Mr. Chapman ordered, and Tutty reluctantly knelt, head down, eyes up, staring daggers at Sherlock.

"My office, now!" said Mrs. Chapman, yanking Sherlock by the elbow and dragging him through the crowd of disappointed, fight-deprived prisoners.

The door of the office slammed, and Chapman asked, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock.

"And the black eye?"

"Walked into a door," Sherlock said, drolly.

Chapman eyed him dubiously, but dropped it.

"Saw you talking to Jonesy," she said.

For a moment, Sherlock was worried that she knew about the drugs. He looked her in the eye, ready to deflect her accusations, but then she continued with: "Make a friend on kitchen duty last week, did you?"

"Hardly," said Sherlock, dismissively, disguising his relief.

It was just the usual surprise people who knew him always expressed when he found someone he could talk to without getting punched.

He should have known that she didn't have a clue. Like 99.9% of the population, she walked around with her eyes closed, missing what was blatantly obvious.

On only his second day in jail, Sherlock had deduced that Dicky Markham was the resident drug dealer. On his fourth day, he'd figured out Dicky's source was Jonesy, the chef, who was bringing drugs in through the kitchen deliveries.

Jonesy had been pissed off at first. He preferred the anonymity of working through Dicky, but as he had been caught out anyway, he agreed to sell directly to Sherlock in exchange for his silence. After that, Sherlock bought off him regularly and traded the coke for favours from other inmates.

"I put the good word in for your parole hearing," she said.

"Great," he said. "Now is that all?"

He turned to leave, without waiting for an answer.

"Wait!" said Chapman.

"What?" said Sherlock, irritated. "I already paid."

"Well I need more," said Chapman, nervous but determined.

"In that case, so do I."

"What do you want?" asked Chapman. "I can't put in _another_ good word..."

"I don't know yet," said Sherlock. "You can owe me one."

It was always good to be owed a favour.

She sighed. "Fine. Now will you have a look for me?"

Sherlock nodded, pulled the blind aside with a finger and looked over to Mr. Chapman, the ex-husband, who had left Tutty and was now on the other side of the refectory chatting to the Dr. Carver, the prison's physician and psychologist.

"He's not sleeping with her yet, but he's considering it," said Sherlock.

"How do you know?"

"Obvious," said Sherlock. "You're a flabby under-achiever with anxiety issues and a bad haircut. He's not exactly attractive himself, but she's..."

Sherlock scrutinised the woman's tanned, toned arms and winning smile as she laughed at Mr. Chapman's joke. The woman was clearly stunning, if you liked that sort of thing.

"... not my type, but clearly she's his, look at the body language."

It was obvious to anyone that the pair were flirting.

"I meant how did you know..." Chapman started.

"Know what?" demanded Sherlock, ignoring the woman's discomfort.

The guard whispered: "How do you know he _hasn't_?"

"She values her professionalism. If she'd slept with him, she'd be trying to hide the fact she fancies him." He paused. "She _does_ fancy him though, so..."

"What shall I do?" Chapman asked, utterly miserable.

"Not my area," Sherlock said, "but apparently in these situations, telling people how you feel is the done thing."

"What if he laughs in my face?" he asked.

Sherlock definitely didn't have any advice to offer on facing that particular fear.

"I'm a consulting detective, Chapman, not a consulting agony aunt," he said as he opened the office door.

"You're on floor scrubbing this week, aren't you?" she called after him. "You'll need to start with the rec room, get it done while it's empty, before first break."

Sherlock just shut the door behind him.

"Not if I can help it," he said to himself.

He made his way back over to Tutty, who was sulking over coffee.

"My payment," said Sherlock, standing over him.

"You gotta be kidding!"

"You'll be returning the coke then?"

Tutty swore.

Sherlock just stared, palm extended, until Tutty swore again and rummaged around in his pocket. For a split second, Sherlock thought that the man was going to return the cocaine after all, but thankfully he pulled out his work pass for the week and tossed it onto the table. Sherlock picked it up. Librarian.

"Well?" said Tutty.

"Better than what I got," said Sherlock, tossing Tutty his floor cleaning card.

"Fuck me," said Tutty, "I'm gonna need a few lines just to handle this."

Sherlock just smirked, but Tutty looked deadly serious. "You owe me a quarter, Shez," he warned.

Sherlock pursed his lips, turned heel and walked out of the canteen. It didn't quite have the same effect as with the dramatic swirl of his coat, but it'd have to do.

* * *

So, what do you think so far? Please review! :)


	6. Grind

I'd better warn you that there's violence in this one. Poor Sherlock! Thanks for all the reviews :) Please let me know what you think of the story so far... when you've read today's chapter, of course.

* * *

So, last week he'd been Sherlock Holmes, sous-chef, this week he was Sherlock Holmes, librarian.

He hoped the library wouldn't be as dull as the kitchen.

Sherlock's cooking was so appalling that after he'd done a bit of sub-standard vegetable chopping, Jonesy had insisted that Sherlock just sit and tell him stories about his cases while he did all the work. Otherwise, he'd said, they'd both get their arses kicked by the other inmates when they tasted their burnt stew and dumplings.

The chef-slash-dealer was much friendlier when he was in the confines of his kitchen rather than surrounded by a canteen full of hardened criminals.

Naturally, Sherlock had been delighted to avoid chopping and stirring and, of course, washing up, which he had intentionally cocked-up to avoid, but even he didn't want to just talk about himself for four straight days like he was reciting entries from John's blog. By Monday lunch-time he was bored stiff.

The mystery of where Jonesy's cocaine was coming from might have kept him entertained, but although Jonesy joked that he'd put his whole cocaine system on hold for the week to make sure that the consulting detective couldn't sniff it out, Sherlock had it in minutes of entering the kitchen: Dobson Wholesale.

Bit by bit, he was piecing together all of the prison's secrets. Soon there would be nothing left and it would become even more tedious.

He sighed as he entered the library and reported for duty.

After you had been here a few years and made a good impression in some area or other, you could get a permanent job and escape the rota system - Jonesy the chef was one such person; the librarian, Smith, was another, a rat-faced man with a downy moustache and small eyes sizing him up from behind unfashionable metal-rimmed glasses.

"Holmes," Sherlock said, although he'd been here several times before as a customer.

Smith studied Sherlock's work pass slowly, then looked up: "I was expecting Tutty."

"Change of plan."

"Ok," said Smith tonelessly.

He opened a drawer and placed the card carefully on a pile, then closed the door again.

"Do you know the library cataloguing system?" Smith asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Your job is to file returned books away and check the books are in the right order. If you come across a book that is in the wrong place, you..."

"Put it in the right place. Got it," said Sherlock impatiently, grabbing a pile of books from the returns trolley and disappearing amongst the shelves.

He could not believe this was his life. Taking orders from a moron in exchange for tokens so he could buy phone calls and visiting time and paper to write letters to his best friend and then tear them up into little pieces and stuff them in his pillow so that nobody could read them, least of all said friend.

As it turned out though, the library job wasn't as bad as he had expected, although the best he could say of it was that it was slightly less tedious than his previous jail jobs.

He found himself doing the filing correctly in the hope that if the jail's inmates wanted a book, they would be able to find it and become slightly more intelligent, possibly providing a bit more of a challenge should they ever commit another crime in the future.

Then he hid what looked like dumbed-down novels by pushing them to the back and pulled forward books on logic, Sudoku puzzles and psychology to push them in the right direction.

He bet John would find that funny. John always got his sense of humour. Well, not always, but more often than anybody else did.

He paused in his filing, a small smile on his face.

"Alright cocksucker," came a voice, ruining the moment.

It was Dicky Markham towering over him and smirking.

Sherlock had been kneeling to file a book on a lower shelf and stood up quickly to re-balance the power somewhat. But no matter what he did, the other man was just as tall as the consulting detective and twice as wide, as if he had spent his entire incarceration doing push-ups and lifting weights at the gym.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Sherlock asked.

"Couldn't concentrate at work," Dicky said conversationally. "Something's been bothering me. Thought the library might be a nice quiet, lonely place to think without anyone disturbing me, not even the guards."

"Must you insist on feigning social niceties in an attempt to appear sinister?" Sherlock complained casually, despite his racing heartbeat and the tension building in his chest. "It's so clichéd."

"Must you talk like a fucking dictionary?" snapped Dicky, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his sweatshirt.

Sherlock ducked out of his grasp, but walked straight into his new friend Trevor Stone, who shoved him back towards Dicky. Behind Stone stood Thomas Dimes, arms crossed, a skinnier and altogether less physically-threatening, but still vicious, criminal who Sherlock had put away for shooting his next-door neighbour, four years ago.

"Get out of my way," Sherlock said, pushing Stone aside and striding past him.

But Dicky followed, grabbed him and spun him around.

"I'll tell you what's been bothering me Holmes. A lack of symmetry. There's a big fucking word for you. One black eye, one white eye, gotta have you matching, haven't we?"

He threw Sherlock into the bookshelf, but it was screwed solidly into the floor, as if its disruption was to be expected and prevented. Sherlock just hit the shelves and staggered, knocking books onto the floor.

Smith came over and stood ramrod straight, a few metres away from them. "Quiet in the library, please," he said, near monotone.

"For God's sake Smith," Sherlock shouted. "Make yourself useful and call a guard."

Smith just looked distressed. "Shhh! Library's must be silent so people can read in peace."

Stone just laughed at him.

Sherlock took that moment of distraction to swing at Dicky, getting a hit in and splitting the other man's lip. Dicky cried out in surprise more than anything, but before Sherlock could swing another punch, Stone had grabbed him from behind and started laughing.

"Deduce your way out of that one, Miss Marple," hissed Thomas. "I deduce that you're outnumbered and about to get your arse kicked."

Sherlock struggled against Stone, but the man had a surprisingly strong grip and was twisting his arms upwards, sending a shooting pain through them all the way to Sherlock's bent-back wrist.

"Quiet please," Smith reminded them, anxiously.

"You quiet!" spat Thomas.

Dicky was rubbing his lip and looking at the blood on his thumb. He wiped it across a couple of books and then knocked them off the shelf and onto the floor.

"I'd just finished filing those," Sherlock quipped.

"Please put the books back where they came from," said Smith. "If you're not sure, please hand them to a librarian."

"If you say so," said Dicky, dangerously.

He picked up one of the hardback books from the floor and threw it at Sherlock. It hit him in the stomach. Not too painful, but he definitely felt it. The next one got him in the forehead, which stung a little more. The third one got him in the chest, right on his gunshot scar, which sent him gasping for breath.

Stone shoved the consulting detective off of him and onto the floor, into the corner. The jolt sent another sharp, sickening wrench through his chest and Sherlock shielded it with his arms and panted, trying to catch his breath and calm the dizziness in his head. He wasn't sure if it was a physical reaction to the sudden lack of air, maybe a skipped heartbeat, or if it was a mental reaction to the flashback of getting shot by Mary. Hopefully the former, he didn't want to add delayed PTSD to his list of problems.

Either way, the incapacity would leave him vulnerable to attack for at least thirty seconds and so he braced himself.

The three criminals grabbed book after book from the shelves and threw them at him hard and at close range. Not all of them really hurt, but the constant barrage was rather disorientating and covering his chest with his arms left his head exposed.

Stone, who Sherlock had never done anything to, seemed to have taken on Dicky and Dimes' revenge as his own and doubled it for his own entertainment. He punched Sherlock a few times in the ribs, shouting abuse as he did so. "Fucking fag, pig, tosser!"

Dicky shoved Stone out the way and whacked Sherlock in the head with a hard-back Encyclopedia Britannica.

"Do you mind!" Sherlock protested, dizzily.

But Dicky just laughed and hit him again. The third time, everything went black.


	7. Elucidation

John hung up his mobile. "Lestrade," he told Mary, although she'd probably guessed from overhearing his half of the conversation.

"Any update?" she asked, from where she sat painting cartoon animals on what they had decided would be the 'feature wall' of the baby's bedroom.

John grabbed the roll of wallpaper and started cutting another piece. "Wants to know if I've heard anything about someone digging up Moriarty's grave."

Mary giggled. "Oh yeah? Have you?"

"No. Weird, isn't it? Who'd be crazy enough to do that?" he grinned, slapping paste onto the back of the wallpaper. "Apparently there's a life-size, Tussaud's-standard Moriarty waxwork in the coffin."

Mary stopped painting for a moment to look round at him, surprised. "It's a waxwork?"

"Apparently so."

"Aw, bless."

"Bless? Not a sentiment usually associated with Moriarty," said John, as he climbed up the ladder and started pasting the paper onto the wall.

"Well, clearly he was lonely and made it for company," she said.

John chuckled.

"Reckon he had it sat in an armchair at home, to chat to after a hard day's work."

John laughed out loud at that image. "Don't make me laugh while I'm up the ladder," he said, climbing back down to ground level.

The half-done paper hung off at an awkward angle but stuck for the time being and he moved over to squeeze her shoulder. "Not bad for our first time, really," said John, looking round and admiring what they'd done so far.

Over the past few weeks they'd cleared all the junk out of their spare room and either given it away to charity shops, thrown it away, or integrated it into the rest of the house, leaving a nice little space for them to do up for the baby. John had papered one-and-a-half walls so far in a soft peach and Mary had been painting pictures on the third, opposite where they planned to put the cot - and later, a child-sized bed.

This morning he'd been nothing but miserable, but now he had a nice, warm fuzzy feeling. He could hardly believe that in a few weeks there would be a baby - his baby, his blood - in this flat, and that he (and Mary) would be responsible for keeping her alive and well and happy, and bringing her up to be a decent human being.

Mary put the last stripe on her zebra and joined him in looking at the room-in-progress with a smile. "Doreen's going to love it."

"Doreen!" snorted John.

"It's my great aunt's name," she said, faking offence.

"Oooh, a clue for my Mary Watson case file."

She rolled her eyes.

"What about Harriet?" John suggested.

"We are not naming the baby after your alcoholic sister!" Mary insisted. "You don't even like her - she didn't even come to the wedding."

"I like her! I just... well... at least I've seen her in the past... year."

"Who says I haven't seen Aunt Doreen?"

And the fuzzy feeling faded.

Because, okay, he'd chosen to throw that pen drive in the fire and focus on their future, but... did she really have an Aunt Doreen, did she visit her in secret so that John couldn't figure out any details about her family, her identity, her real name?

"Joke," said Mary. "You've heard of them? They're supposed to make you laugh?"

He smiled, but his eyes weren't in it.

Dammit, he wished that he could put it all behind him.

And so he reminded himself again that he had secrets in his own past. It's not like he'd said, Will you marry me? And by the way, I shot a cabbie in the head for Sherlock Holmes, and I shot another man in Afghanistan and it was self-defence but I still wonder what his story was - why he was fighting, if talking could've changed his mind, what his favourite song was, what he would've chosen as his last meal, and who he left behind.

No, he hadn't told her everything. And he loved her. God, he loved her. There was no other woman like her. And yet -

Who had she killed? Because okay, he'd killed, but only other killers and only in self-defence or to save someone else's life, Sherlock's life. He would never just kill because he could. There was a line - had she crossed it? 'People like Magnussen should be killed,' she'd said, 'That's why there are people like me.'

"Is there an Aunt Doreen?" he asked.

"John..." Mary said, quietly.

"No, no, you're right. I said I didn't want to know and I don't."

"I don't have an Aunt Doreen," she said.

"Oh," said John. "Neither do I."

He laughed, but it was a desperate laugh, because his wife was a pregnant assassin and laughing about it was easier than knowing what to do or what to say. Mary just looked at him, paintbrush in one hand, forehead creased with concern.

"I don't know what you want me to do, John," she said.

He was laughing harder now and the harder he laughed, the sadder Mary became. She reached out to hold him, but he put his hand up, keeping her at arm's length.

"I just..." he said, eventually, "I just want you to be Mary Watson."

"I am," she said.

And he knew she meant it. But he also knew that it wasn't strictly true.

She was A.G.R.A., whoever that was.

Where did A.G.R.A. draw the line on who was 'bad', who 'deserved' to be killed, and when it was 'justified' rather than 'murder'?

Had she only killed murderers? Terrorists?

Had there been enough evidence against them?

Had she questioned what her targets had done to deserve to be killed, or had she just followed orders, killing on demand for someone else's unknown agenda?

Magnussen had said 'freelance' too.

Freelance. A.G.R.A… Mary… who had she killed off her own back?

Before John could think about what he was doing, he was grabbing his coat.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked, sadly.

"Out!" he said firmly, as he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Please comment and let me know what you think so far :)


	8. Stuffed

Sherlock could hear muffled voices.

"... where is..."

"... Jack Tutty... scrubbing..."

"... Smith, for crying out loud!"

Awareness increased; light didn't. For a moment he though he'd gone blind, then he noticed several things. The damp smell. The cold floor. The stuffy air. The cardboard box at his finger tips. The fact the voices were muffled.

The prison's library storage cupboard.

He sat up and his head spun. He steadied himself against the shelving that was apparently to his left. Bruised ribs, cuts to the face and head, disorientated, confused, dizzy, headache. The fact that he'd been knocked unconscious.

Concussion.

The door unlocked and opened and he grimaced against the light.

Mrs. Chapman, the guard, was standing outside with another woman... visitor's pass, smart-casual suit-jacket jeans combo, digital camera round the neck, ID badge in pocket... detective. Surely he hadn't been unconscious so long he'd been reported missing?

Smith the librarian hovered nervously behind them, muttering to himself.

No, no, of course not, not a missing person. This was much better, _much_ better.

"Who's the victim?" Sherlock asked.

Chapman and the detective shared a look.

"Mr. Holmes?" the detective said. "I'm detective Turner. I need to ask you where you were at 9.45."

"I'm a suspect?" Sherlock said. "Fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Mrs. Chapman said, incredulous. Turner's brow furrowed.

Sherlock slowly pulled himself to his feet. Head rush. He put a hand to the door frame and closed his eyes a moment. When his head had cleared, he opened his eyes again.

"What are the facts?" he asked.

"Just answer my question," Turner asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I don't even know what time it is now. I've been unconscious since about 9.30am."

"That's convenient," said Chapman.

Sherlock shot her a look. "You think I murdered somebody, then beat myself up and ran back here to lock myself in a cupboard?" he asked, sardonically.

"I think Jonesy put up a fight!" said Chapman, angry.

"Jonesy?" said Sherlock, softly, taken by surprise somehow.

"Samuel Jones was stabbed at 9.45 Mr. Holmes," said detective Turner. "I ran the prints against the prison records and there was a perfect match."

"Me," said Sherlock.

"Exactly. What do you say to that?" Turner asked.

"I say I'm being framed..." Sherlock said, and then he grinned "... and this is the most exciting thing that's happened all month! I need to see the crime scene, please tell me you haven't processed it and packed it up yet."

Turner's brow furrowed.

"You're delusional, Holmes," said Chapman. "You're going to maximum security prison, just you and four walls, twenty-four hours a day. The evidence..."

"It was a kitchen knife, yes?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes!" said Chapman. "And if you're being framed, how come you know so much about it?"

"If I was the killer, would I admit that I knew?" asked Sherlock. "Think! I was on kitchen duty last week. On the Monday morning, before Jonesy declared me culinarily incompetent, I used a knife to chop an onion or two. Somebody took the knife for this very purpose.

Ask a doctor to confirm my concussion and bruised ribs, then check Jonesy's fists - they haven't touched me. Ask Smith about how he's been standing outside the cupboard since 9.30 panicking about the disruption to his precious library routine."

Smith, who was still muttering, looked up. "Pardon?"

"What are you even doing in the library?" asked Chapman.

"Filing," said Sherlock, intentionally avoiding admitting to swapping his job card with Tutty that morning.

"And who were your assailants?" Turner asked.

"No matter that. I'm sure Smith will suffice as an alibi," said Sherlock.

Turner turned to Chapman. "I highly doubt Mr. Holmes is the killer. An alibi, no motive, the crime that put him in here was a once-off in the line of duty, he's put a request in for a parole hearing. It doesn't add up, Chapman. I'll take a statement of course, but..."

Sherlock took a step forward and staggered, falling straight into Turner. Her camera went flying. "Oh, sorry!" he exclaimed, and they both reached for it at the same time. Somehow, Sherlock knocked her out the way with his unsteady scramble to his feet and dropped the camera again. He dropped to his knees to pick it up a second time and flicked it on, holding his head for a moment, not-quite feigning so much as playing-on his dizziness.

He managed to see a couple of crime scene photographs before Turner cleared her throat and stuck a hand out.

He handed the camera back to her, reluctantly.

"Chapman," said Turner. "Perhaps you could escort Mr. Homes to the hospital wing?"

* * *

Thanks for all the comments and favourites so far. There are a couple of hundred people reading this according to the stats - glad you're all enjoying it! :) Would be nice to know what you think so please do comment.


	9. Stitched

As Sherlock and Chapman passed the canteen on the way to the infirmary, Sherlock ducked out of her grasp and under the red tape. The place was full of police officers and forensics, going over everything with a fine toothcomb. Now if he could just get over to the kitchen...

But he couldn't exactly blag it in his prison tracksuit. A police officer was on him almost immediately, his colleagues not far behind.

"Out!" the man yelled, and between him and Chapman, the concussion and aching ribs, Sherlock was back in the hallway within seconds, the door slammed in his face.

A wave of dizziness rushed through his head. He closed his eyes and put a hand to the wall to steady himself.

"Not gonna swoon on me are you Holmes?" asked Chapman, with mild concern.

Sherlock waited till the stars turned to the black of the back of his eyelids. Took a deep breath.

"Hardly," he said, as he straightened.

No access to the crime scene then. He would be solving a murder from photographs alone and with a concussion to boot. This was certainly going to be a challenge… but perhaps the challenge would keep him sane.

"Can you walk," she asked?

"Of course I can walk."

And as they walked, he thought about the crime scene pictures.

Jonsey had been wearing his chef's uniform, face down on the lino. Stabbed in the back multiple times, struggled, knife pulled out and tossed beside him as he bled.

Scenario 1: someone snuck up on Jonesy. Someone who was good at being very quiet.

Scenario 2: Jonesy trusted the killer enough to turn his back. But why would he turn his back? Either from anger, or to get something. He was facing the counter, so it could have been the latter. Was he reaching for a weapon to defend himself?

There had been a rolling pin on the counter. Thick enough to hit someone over the head with. A possibility.

Was it all just a set-up to frame Sherlock? Or had someone demanded Jonesy hand over the coke stash… and then, as they saw the chef reaching for his rolling pin, panicked and stabbed him in the back?

But panic didn't usually lead to such brutal, multiple stabbings - that suggested some pre-meditation and anger from the killer.

Anger for who though – Jonesy, or Sherlock?

"Holmes!"

Sherlock opened his eyes.

He was lying on the floor of the small, bright-white, three-bed hospital infirmary, looking up into Chapman's frowning face.

As his vision cleared, he realized that the concussion had apparently got the better of him. For a moment. He edged up onto an elbow, allowing his head to get used to the movement lest he pass out again. He pushed himself higher up to sitting, gasping as a sharp pain shot through his ribs.

Chapman grabbed his arm and guided him into a chair. No doubt she wanted him seated before the doctor arrived, worried that she would be in trouble for allowing a concussed prisoner to walk around until he fainted.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he sat, head pounding, ribs throbbing.

"Sorry," Chapman said. "About earlier. For a minute, I really thought -"

Sherlock waved off her concern. "It's fine. The evidence did appear to be pointing at me. To an inferior mind, at least. Whoever did this set it up pretty well."

"Okay," she said. "Um, thanks."

They waited in silence for a few moments, Sherlock sitting, his aching head propped up on one hand, Chapman standing guard at his side, the clock ticking.

"You owe me a favour," Sherlock suddenly realised.

"I said I was sorry," Chapman protested.

"Not that," said Sherlock. "I deduced for you earlier."

Chapman frowned, remembering. "What do you want?" she asked, reluctantly.

"Get me access to the case file."

"I won't even have access to that!" she protested.

"The filing room."

"I could lose my job," said Chapman.

"Some files then," said Sherlock.

She hesitated.

"Do you want the murder solved or not?" snapped Sherlock.

"Of course, but..."

"Well, it's settled then."

Sherlock took a leaflet on drug abuse from the noticeboard, jotted down a list of names on the back and handed it to Chapman.

"Roy Sampson, Carl Merryweather, Philip Clarke... " she said, reading the first few names on the scrap of notepaper. "Why these particular prisoners?"

But Sherlock wasn't going to incriminate himself by telling her it was a list of Dicky Markham - and therefore Jonesy's - cocaine customers. And Dicky, Dimes and Stone themselves of course - after shoving Sherlock in a cupboard, the three would have had just enough time to get to the kitchen and murder Jonesy.

Sherlock had three theories about a motive:

1) It was about framing Sherlock.

2) It was about Jonesy's drugs.

3) It was about Jonesy's drugs _and_ framing Sherlock.

A look through the prisoners' personal files should help him to find similar M.O.s in their pre- and post-prison crimes, or any links to himself or to Jonesy.

It made sense to start with the coke addicts and their dealer.

"They seem suspicious," said Sherlock, vaguely.

Chapman looked dubious again. "Any link between them?"

"Not that I know of," Sherlock lied.

"If you know something, Holmes..."

"Will you give me the files or not?"

She looked angry, but she acquiesced. "Fine. But if anyone finds out, you broke in and stole them yourself."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Carver, who walked in and smiled.

Chapman just gave the doctor a dirty look and left, "See you later, Holmes."

Dr. Carver looked puzzled.

"She thinks you're having sex with her husband," explained Sherlock.

Carver blushed.

"Don't worry, I know that you're not."

Carver's blush only got stronger. "Let's focus on you, shall we?" she said.

She started by cleaning up the cuts on his face. He twitched a little at the sting of the antiseptic on the lump on his head.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Fell down the stairs," Sherlock quipped.

"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"If you already know what happened, why ask?"

She tutted, but got straight back to business, asking if she was right in thinking he was favouring his ribs. He nodded, allowing her to check them and ask questions - was he having difficulty breathing (no), did it hurt when he did x, y and z (yes, yes and yes).

Lastly, she examined his head, looked into his eyes, diagnosed bruised ribs and a concussion and prescribed forty-eight hours rest.

"Can't you fix it?" asked Sherlock.

"It will fix itself," said Carver. "You just have to wait."

"I'm too busy to wait."

"Hmm," said Carver, flicking through his medical file. "You're on zamasaproxyl..."

"And?"

"You know, you don't have to get your doctor on the outside… Dr. Watson… to keep doing the prescriptions. If you start seeing me regularly then I can do it."

"Seeing you?" said Sherlock, with a suspicious tone.

"Yes."

"As a G.P. or as a psychologist?"

"Some therapy would do you good, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"I have my therapy, doctor," he said. "Haven't you heard? Somebody's trying to frame me for murder!"

* * *

So, what do all you lovely fanfic readers think so far?


	10. Interrogation

Lestrade sat down opposite Sherlock in Flitwick Prison's interrogation room and tried not to let his reaction show on his face. Probably futile - Sherlock would pick up the slight flinch that had twitched at his features when he saw the state of the him.

Always slender, the consulting detective now looked gaunt, and the casual attire that was the prisoners' only clothing option meant he had lost the impact of his snappy dress-sense. The handcuffs, holding Sherlock's wrists together, attached to a ring on the table in front of him, only added to the impression of vulnerability.

The cuts and bruises were the worst, of course, a vivid and ugly contrast against his sun-deprived skin. A yellowing days-old black eye contrasted with fresher red cuts, suggesting that whatever had happened to cause the injuries was not a one-off incident.

Lestrade waved at the restraints. "Are these really necessary?" he complained in the direction of the security camera.

"Save your breath Lestrade," said Sherlock, without a hint of gratitude.

Lestrade couldn't help but be pleased that even if he looked like a teenage GBH victim he at least sounded like his usual arrogant self.

Sherlock continued: "It's standard procedure for your own safety. Can't have the dangerous murderer at liberty in the presence of the poor, unarmed detective."

"Oh please," said Lestrade. "What are they feeding you in here? You couldn't fend off a kitten right now."

"Or three convicted killers, apparently," Sherlock dead-panned. He bit his lip, clearly embarrassed, but Lestrade supposed that there was no hiding the fact he had taken a beating and so he'd broken the ice and faced the topic head on.

"Jesus." Lestrade frowned. "I'll have a word - no, a _talking to_ - with the gaffer. You're one of us, they should be -"

Sherlock shook his head. Then froze. Screwed his eyes shut with a grimace. Clearly the movement hadn't agreed with him.

"Are you…" Lestrade started.

But Sherlock waved off Lestrade's concern within the limited movement of his cuffed hands, took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"The last thing I need," Sherlock said, "Is the guards keeping an eye on me twenty-four seven. Let's just get on with the case."

Lestrade sighed. There was no reasoning with the man.

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock.

"What do I...? You called me!"

"Did I? Oh yes, I did, didn't I. Well, there's been a murder since then and I'm a bit busy so let's get hurry this along, shall we."

Lestrade shook his head irritably. "So, which case is it? I was told that..." He pulled out a scrap of paper with a handwritten phone message on it "… 'Sherlock Holmes has some information for me and is willing to make a deal.' Does this have anything to do with the anonymous tip-off I got about visiting Moriarty's grave?"

Sherlock's face was a picture of false innocence. "Moriarty's grave?"

"Don't mess with me Sherlock, do you know something?"

"I've been a bit out of the loop lately, but do feel free to fill me in on everything."

He leaned forward with anticipation.

"Okay, I'll bite," said Lestrade. "As John no doubt told you, I couldn't get the exhumation order for Moriarty's corpse like you suggested. Then I get a tip off that _somebody_ had dug up the grave the old-fashioned way. I showed up with back-up and found myself looking straight into the bastard's grinning face."

"He was waiting for you at the graveyard?" asked Sherlock, sitting up straighter.

"In a manner of speaking," said Lestrade. "Inside the coffin there was a life-size, Moriarty-shaped wax-work. Very creepy."

"Hmm," said Sherlock, sinking back. "What's the point of that?"

"I don't know," said Lestrade, exasperated. "The man's nuts, isn't he? He just likes playing games, messing with our heads."

"Yes," agreed Sherlock. "But there's usually a bit more to it - a long game, a threat, a clue. This just seems... silly."

"Well, one things for certain," said Lestrade. "He's definitely not dead."

"Obviously."

Lestrade pulled out his notebook and pen and settled back into his chair. "Right then. What's this information you have for me? You know I can't do a deal myself, but I can pass it onto... what?"

Sherlock was smirking at him.

Realisation hit Lestrade. "You don't have any information, do you?"

"Not as such."

Lestrade thumped the table. "Jesus, Sherlock! Did you get me all the way down here to _get_ information? From me? About Moriarty? It's a two-hour round trip - why couldn't you just call?"

"Today's Monday."

"So?"

"Phone call days are Tuesdays and Fridays."

Lestrade rubbed his head in frustration. When a man faked his own death or went into prison, you really started to forget how annoying they could be. Until you saw them again that is - then you remembered with a bloody vengeance.

But he wouldn't see Sherlock again for a while, so he tried to calm himself down and at least have a civil conversation, telling himself there was no real harm done, he'd been planning on visiting at some point anyway and was now saved the effort of arranging it.

Lestrade heaved a deep sigh, then asked: "So, how's prison?"

"Unspeakably dull."

Lestrade hesitated, then finally asked: "Why _did_ you do it, Sherlock? Murder? You're better than that - we could've got him by the book."

Of course, Sherlock couldn't explain that Magnussen had something on Mary. That he'd threatened to call people who wanted to hurt Mary, kill Mary - and John's baby inside her - and tear John's whole life down.

And that John, who could snap that snake's neck in a heartbeat, was standing there letting himself be flicked in the face, asking Sherlock what to do. Relying on Sherlock to think of something to make it stop. Because if he could be flicked in the face, in the eye, with an expression of utter fury and defeat, and do nothing, then he was Magnussen's bitch, and John Watson would never be anyone's bitch if Sherlock Holmes could help it.

"It was the only way to stop him," said Sherlock simply.

"The easiest way, more like," Lestrade complained. "And look where it's got you."

"Hmmm."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Lestrade coughed awkwardly, fiddling with something in his coat, and Sherlock looked up with interest. "You've brought a case file with you?"

"If you don't mind," said Lestrade.

"Like I said, prison is tedious. Hand it over."

Lestrade passed it across. "Sorry, but I'll have to keep your name out of it."

"I'm not interested in _credit_."

He didn't add that he would have insisted on anonymity himself - the last thing he needed was _more_ criminals he'd put away showing up in Flitwick Prison.

He flicked through the file as best he could with his restricted hands, waving away Lestrade's attempt at assistance.

"So, have you seen much of John?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock read.

"Every Saturday - visiting day," said Sherlock. "And I call him on phone call days."

"Call me some time, if you like," suggested Lestrade.

"Why?"

Lestrade tutted, but he was used to Sherlock and took it in his stride. "Bet John's excited about finishing up the baby's bedroom today, isn't he? I met him and Mary for a drink last week and it was all they talked about."

Sherlock frowned. "He hasn't mentioned it to me."

"Oh right," said Lestrade. "I guess he thought you wouldn't be interested, what with it being unrelated to Moriarty."

Sherlock bristled. "I'm not a one-track record, Lestrade. I can talk about more than just Moriarty. For example, for the sake of politeness, I frequently feign interest in your personal life and general well-being."

"No you don't!"

They sat in silence for a while, while Sherlock sulked. Lestrade didn't interrupt it or try to jostle him out of it - he knew Sherlock's moods well enough by now.

Eventually, as predicted, Sherlock broke. "It was the gardener."

"What? How do you know they even...?"

"They're busy professionals with a semi-detached house and a well-trimmed hedges, of course they have a gardener."

"What makes you think he's the killer?"

Sherlock sighed. "I dread to think of the state of London with me locked up in here and only Scotland Yard out there to fight crime."

Lestrade bristled. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

"Take another look at the murder weapon."

"What will I find?"

"You're the detective, you figure it out."

"Fine," said Lestrade, tucking the file back into his coat.

They sat in silence for a minute, frowning.

As the clock ticked, Lestrade became increasingly aware that he would be leaving soon, and Sherlock would be staying in the prison, trapped behind bars with hundreds of hardened criminals who had it in for him. A detective in prison, even an unofficial one, was always a target. He wouldn't like to be in Sherlock's shoes.

"The assault," he said, finally. "Let me help."

"There is something you can do."

"What?"

"I've requested a parole hearing..."

"This early?"

Sherlock just looked him in the eye and stared.

"I suppose it's worth a shot. I'll make a call, put in a good word for you."

Sherlock nodded his thanks.

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked, looking at the state of Sherlock's face. "Anything more... immediate?"

Sherlock nodded. "Tell Mrs. Chapman that I traded my help for an extra phonecall."

"Who you going to call?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, just looked down at his hands like a moody child. Of course, Lestrade knew who he wanted to call, and so in the end he just nodded. "When?"

"Tonight."

Sherlock stood, wincing at the jolt to his ribs, and called for the guard.

"Off so soon?" asked Lestrade. "I've only just got here!"

"I've got a concussion, Lestrade. I think I'm entitled to lie down with a bit of light reading."

That's if you could call twenty confidential prisoner files, slipped under his mattress by Chapman, 'light'.

* * *

I love Sherlock and Lestrade friendship stuff. Their banter is fantastic. Comments please :)


	11. Stealth

John couldn't believe he was doing this.

Only, he could believe it. Ever since he'd met Sherlock Holmes, anything seemed bloody possible. And so there he was, breaking and entering at Tussaud's factory, in the middle of the night. At least, he thought, if he was arrested, he might get sent to prison and see his best friend a bit more. He'd have to kill someone too of course, to be in with a chance of getting into the same jail - hopefully a security guard would get in his way.

And he stopped his inappropriate chain of thought in its tracks. Even if he was a murderer - which he wasn't - he wouldn't willingly go to jail just to see more of Sherlock. No matter how much he bloody missed him. Which wasn't _that _much. Just the normal amount that you'd miss a best friend, that's all.

Okay, so maybe the way he felt about Sherlock was a little bit stronger than what you would normally feel for your best friend. He'd never felt this way about Sam Dobson at university, for example. But then Sam Dobson didn't keep dying and nearly dying and getting imprisoned all the time - you couldn't help but realise how much someone meant to you when you lost them on a regular basis. When you grieved, you let yourself feel love for a person, and that didn't just go away when they came back to life.

Platonic love of course. Platonic love.

He shook his head to clear it and crept down the long corridor, lit only by the eerie green of the fire exits, scanning the doors and ignoring workshops, storage, toilets, kitchen...

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump.

Withheld number.

"Hello?" he whispered as he answered.

"What are you doing?" said Sherlock. "Have you broken into a museum?"

John grinned at the sound of his best friend's voice. "What? No, it's the waxwork factory."

Sherlock grunted, irritably. "Similar acoustics. If you wanted to find out who commissioned the waxwork for Moriarty, you could've just hacked their computer system."

"I don't know how to do that!" John retorted, exasperated.

"He won't have left any trace of himself in the paperwork."

"Well it's the only lead we have," John said, voice raising to a normal volume as he got angry. He forced it back down into a whisper. "How have you got Monday phone access in the middle of the night, anyway? Tell me you're not causing trouble in there Sherlock, or you'll never get out."

"Of course not, John."

"Really?"

"Yes, I'm using your law-abiding, rule-following behaviour as a standard."

John swore, but he was laughing a moment later. Sherlock joined in.

"You might as well have a look now you're in there," Sherlock conceded.

"Good to know, because I think I've found the admin office," John told him.

The door was unlocked and John let himself in. Just a standard office - desk, filing cabinets, computers, shelves or folders, stacks of paper, a photocopier.

"I'm in," he told Sherlock.

"Look for Richard Brook, not James Moriarty."

"Obviously," said John. "So, what did you ring for?" He began looking along the folder labels: A-C, D-G...

"Because I have no means of texting?" Sherlock replied.

"And...?"

"Can't I just ring up my best friend for a chat?" Sherlock asked.

John tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and picked up the A-C file. He started flicking through looking for 'Brook, Richard'.

"Not from prison, in the middle of the night, while I'm breaking and entering."

"I..." Sherlock hesitated. "I wanted to know how the baby's room's going?"

"Really? Um... yeah, great, I suppose."

He didn't want to tell Sherlock about the argument. Telling Sherlock he was happy with the woman who'd shot him felt like a betrayal, but telling anyone he wasn't happy with her felt like wrenching his heart out of his chest.

"Er, elephants, puppies and polar bears, that sort of thing," said John. He flicked through the B-section of the file.

"That's... an interesting combination of animals," said Sherlock, with restraint.

John put the folder back onto the shelf and moved over to the filing cabinet.

"Yeah," John agreed vaguely.

He pulled open a drawer and gaped at the overwhelming amount of paperwork that confronted him inside. Luckily, the admin assistant of the office was anal enough to use multi-coloured file dividers.

On the downside, they had clearly memorised what sort of papers were in each drawer as the outside of the cabinet was unlabeled. John would have to open each of the fifteen drawers and sift through until he found what looked like invoices. He sighed.

"So, uh…" Sherlock started. He cleared his throat. "I um… I started a job in the library today…"

"Oh right," said John vaguely, most of his attention on the job in front of him.

"It... erm. Well, it didn't really go as well as..."

"Yes!" John interrupted.

There was a long pause as John walked his fingers through the files.

"You found the invoices?" Sherlock asked finally.

"Wait," said John. "Weren't you about to tell me something?"

"It's not important," said Sherlock, quietly. "The files?"

"Yes," said John. "Damn! They're filed by client, not by the person in the waxwork... Hmm, there's a lot of people out there having private waxworks done. Little weird."

"If she's organised enough to file by client, there's probably a cross-reference index."

Then Sherlock roared down the phone in frustration, startling John into dropping the mobile and the file he'd been holding. He scrambled to pick up the mobile again, still fiddling with it as he near-shouted: "What? What is it?"

"It's just maddening in here," Sherlock ranted. "There are so many idiots everywhere. All the time. I can't get away from them, John. And there's a rigid schedule. There's a bed time. A _bed time_!"

"It's prison Sherlock, it's supposed to be crap," said John.

But he sat down on the rough carpet, his back against the desk, abandoning the case for the time being, just to listen.

It was a relief, really, for John. All this time he'd been worrying about Sherlock's state of mind in prison, whether the zamasaproxyl prescription was his way of telling John how unhappy he was, yet all Sherlock had talked about was Moriarty.

Now he was opening up, letting John listen.

"And you're out there..." Sherlock started. "And Moriarty…"

"I'm okay, Sherlock," said John.

"I know you're okay," Sherlock snapped. "It's…just…so…. dull."

"Did you call Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighed. "Even if I did apologise, Mycroft isn't God, John. I shot a man in the head in cold blood in front of ten witnesses."

"Yeah, but he wasn't a very nice man," said John.

Sherlock laughed, despite himself, and moments later they were both at it. They giggled for a few minutes and then lapsed into a comfortable silence, just listening to each other's breathing on the other end of the receiver.

It was Sherlock who broke it first: "Did you find the Brook invoice yet?

It was then that the alarm went off. "Shit!" John yelled and hung up, leaving a frustrated Sherlock holding a phone with a dead tone blaring into his ear.

* * *

Argh! What's going to happen to John? How is Sherlock going to handle the suspense of not knowing? Thanks for all the comments so far. I reply to them all, but some people are guests so I'm thanking y'all here instead. I like comments by the way. More comments please. :)


	12. Freaked

Sherlock grabbed Mrs. Chapman by the lapels of her shirt and demanded: "I need another phone call. Now!"

Chapman, shoved him off, fueled by pure incredulity. "Keep your hands off me, Holmes!"

Sherlock's head spun from the sudden movement, but he pushed past it, grabbed her by the shoulders and held her tight. "I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade would help John. He had to. Chapman's eyes were bulging with rage. Sherlock's face was close and intense.

"Urgently," Sherlock yelled.

Sherlock thought he had her for a moment, but then Chapman was slyly lifting up her radio and pressing the call button with a beep.

"Chapman, phone room..." Chapman started.

Sherlock knocked it out of her hand before he knew what he was doing.

"What's the problem?" Mr. Chapman said through the radio, just before it smashed against the ground and shattered into several pieces, cutting out the sound with a garbled beep, stuttering static, and then silence as it died completely.

Sherlock and Mrs. Chapman stared at the smashed walkie-talkie frozen as they stood.

Sherlock's heart was beating fast. Never mind that he hadn't hurt her, any sort of aggression towards a guard was a cardinal sin in here. Worse than stealing, worse than breaking the rules, worse than beating up another inmate, perhaps worse, even, than killing another inmate. They were just criminals after all and the guards were the law.

The punishment was something that Sherlock could not abide: solitary confinement.

Of course, he had wished for solitude.

In jail, there were always other prisoners and guards, or his cellmate Big Joe. There were other people in the visiting room on visiting days, other people on the phone nearby on phone call days and a security camera in the interrogation room. The closest he got to privacy was in the toilet cubicle and even then there was always someone waiting for their turn outside.

Being surrounded by morons was far more lonely than being alone.

But solitude and solitary confinement were two different things altogether. Solitary confinement meant no entertainment, no phone calls, no visits: no John, no case, no John. No way of finding out what had happened to John until the guards decided the confinement was over. He would prefer torture. No, it _was_ torture. Just himself, a bed, a toilet, four walls and a locked door.

No John.

Chapman's expression switched from shock to anger and Sherlock, against his nature, backed down and held out his hands placatingly. "I'm sorry," he said. "Chapman, I'm sorry. I... I just had a bit of a shock on the phone there. I... I wasn't thinking. It's the concussion! You know I would never... I can't go to solitary, Chapman. What about the Jonesy case?"

But Chapman was just breathing heavily, head down, eyes up and boring straight into Sherlock's skull with a glint of fury.

They could both hear the cavalry running along the corridor to meet them.

"Chapman!" Sherlock said, desperate. "I, uh... look, I don't say this very often, but _please_, Chapman. I'll deduce for you as much as you want. For free. Just tell them you dropped it, tell them it wasn't me, tell them it was an accident."

But when the other guards came storming through the door, led by Mr. Chapman, Mrs. Chapman said nothing, and they tackled Sherlock to the ground, forcing his arms behind him and into cuffs and silencing his protests with a suffocating headlock as they dragged him away.

* * *

Sorry everyone, I followed the John cliffhanger in the previous chapter with a Sherlock cliffhanger in this one. Mwahahaha! Comments please! :)


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